


Free

by PrideGifts (Laeviss)



Series: Wranduin! [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-8.3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/PrideGifts
Summary: Wrathion returns to Stormwind after slaying N'Zoth, but the nightmares haven't quite left him.
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Wranduin! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756381
Comments: 15
Kudos: 85





	Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [schematise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schematise/gifts).



A ‘clink’ wrenched Wrathion’s gaze from the rippled surface of his wine. Lifting his head, he turned from the Keep courtyard to face the corridor leading into the main ballroom. His silk-clad foot swung free from the balustrade, and his jaw slackened. A cluster of palace guards surrounded him with their hands on the hilts of their swords. 

“Black Prince Wrathion?” the smallest among them stepped forward, his armor scraping as he reached up and removed his helmet. Tousled black locks tumbled free, framing a pair of gaunt cheeks and dark eyes lost in the shadow of a heavy brow.

Forcing his mouth closed, Wrathion twisted his lips into a smile. “The one and only.” A few red droplets sloshed over the rim of his glass, splashing the tile floor somewhere out of view as he waved open his arm. “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?”

“You are to come with us,” the human explained. His face swayed and blurred around the edges. “By order of his Majesty, King Anduin Wrynn.” 

Wrathion straightened, wrapping the fingers of his free hand around the stone railing, and easing himself to stand on the ground before them. His heart leapt, but he swallowed and willed the muscles around his mouth to relax. Sweeping back his curls, he replied, his eyes moving from one muddled face to the next, “Oh, my apologies. Had I known he desired my company, I wouldn’t have left the dance hall so quickly. I simply wanted a breath of fresh air, a few moments under the stars with my drink. You understand, I’m sure?”

The guard’s grimace didn’t falter, and the surrounding party failed to remove their hands from the weapons at their sides. Wrathion’s pulse quickened, and he shifted to set aside his glass. Just as his knuckles brushed against stone, however, the black-haired soldier reached into a satchel at his hip and withdrew a small scroll. With a woosh, it unfurled, bouncing and swinging between his knees. 

Clearing his throat, he read, with a slight hitch in his breath, “On this day, the fourth day of the seventh month, Wrathion, the Black Prince, Spawn of Deathwing has been charged with capital treason, collusion, and assault on the former crown prince’s royal person.”

Wrathion froze. A quiver raced from his shoulder to his wrist, shaking free the glass stem he had clutched between his thumb and forefinger. It hit the floor with a crash, but nobody turned to look. Huffing, the dragon the puff of smoke pouring from his lips evaporate in the air between them. His chest rose and fell. 

“Surely you must be joking,” Wrathion cursed the way his voice jumped in pitch. “Please, go find the king and tell him this isn't funny. Tell him the champagne must have gone to his delicate head.”

Flicking the parchment forward between his palms, the guard continued without looking up, “You are to surrender fully into our custody.”

“Or perhaps the Speaker?” He tried, louder, now, to hear himself over the blood rushing in his ears. “Please, retrieve him for me, and he will tell you—”

“Any attempt to flee or transform will be taken as an admission of guilt.”

“Surely there’s some mistake! Is this how the good people of Stormwind treat the Savior of Azeroth?”

The soldier rumbled; its tremble sank to the pit of Wrathion’s stomach, clawing, and twisting his insides up in its hollow grasp. Staggering, he fought down a wave of nausea.

“Your trial will take place at sunrise. If you are found guilty, you will die by the hand of King Wrynn. The Light will see that justice is served. No longer will your kind sully this earth with corruption. The Black Dragonflight dies with you. So says the law. So says the king. You will pay, Wrathion, for your—”

“NO!” 

Wrathion flung himself forward. When he leaned back, the details of the room around him fell into place: the white cotton pillow sticking to his sweat-soaked hair, the featureless stone walls closing in on all sides, and the prickle of hay poking out from the mattress above his bound left ankle. Gasping, he pressed into the heels of his hands and forced himself up to sitting. The acid burns on his fingers stung at the sudden change in pressure.

Knitting his brow, he fought to make sense of the lump hunched in the corner. It turned out to be a small man—pale, with dark hair swinging in curtains around his face as he scurried to pick up a broken bottle. He said nothing, but shot Wrathion a few tentative looks before turning, dumping the shards in a bin, and straightening a metal tray on the counter. The clatter and scrape tugged at Wrathion’s thoughts, bringing that guard’s face back into haunting focus…

Wrathion brought his hands to his face, but stopped short at the sight of bandages yellowed by serum. Biting his lip, he inhaled. The door to his left creaked open.

As if shot from a gun, the attendant shoved forward, then whirled around with his hands clenched in front of his stained white apron. A man dressed in blue with blond hair piled into a bun slipped into the room. Even with his back to Wrathion, the slope of his shoulders and slight limp in his gait was unmistakable.

“Anduin!” He exclaimed, as the other man cut in with a hasty, “Your Majesty!”

Anduin inclined his head. The attendant shot Wrathion a look, and Wrathion cleared his throat.

“I can take it from here, Stanley,” Anduin murmured, with his eyes still fixed on the attendant. He took a step to stand beside him, reaching over, and sliding out the metal tray from behind his back. Stanley’s knuckles whitened as he dug his fingers into the backs of his hands.

“Your Majesty, I would be happy to assist.”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” The king shook his head. He picked up a roll of gauze from the far corner of the counter and added it to his supplies.

“But your Majesty, the dragon! He seems _agitated._ Amoment ago he was growling. I implore you—”

Wrathion coughed and waved a bandaged hand. “A nightmare.” Neither human turned to acknowledge him. He went on, undaunted, “Simply a nightmare. I am feeling much better now, however. There is really no cause for—”

“The Black Prince and I are acquainted,” Anduin whispered under his breath. Squaring his shoulders, he picked up the tray and pressed it to his lower abdomen. “Your talents are needed elsewhere. Elunar is running a fever. Please bring her a basin and towel. I shouldn’t be long.”

With a sigh, Stanley took a step to the side and lowered his stringy black head. “If you say so, your Majesty,” he muttered, then quickened past the corner of Wrathion’s bed and disappeared out the door. 

Wrathion listened to the soft pad of his shoes disappearing down the hall, pursing, and wetting his lips before whispering, “Anduin. What a surprise.” The name felt heavier on the tip of his tongue than it had when he gasped it moments before. His pulse quickened as the human approached. 

Taking a seat by the side of the bed, Anduin placed down the tray and extended an open palm in Wrathion’s direction. Lines creased his forehead between his eyes. He didn’t look up. “Your hands, please,” he said, his tone unreadable.

Wrathion hesitated, then lifted his arms an inch or two off the bed, allowing Anduin to take his wrist and peel back the sticky gauze. Underneath, his skin shone, raw, and bubbled with blisters. Studying the wound for a moment, turning his hand left, then right, the king nodded and reached for a vial. 

“You know, I’m surprised to see you here,” Wrathion quipped, the lilt in his voice cutting through the silence. “It seems a mundane task for the king, don’t you think? Tending to a few wounded champions and a dragon who, somehow, against all odds, managed to get himself burned. Ridiculous, really.”

“Your other hand, please,” Anduin replied, though this time he took it before it was offered. After unwinding the bandage and applying a few drops of potion to the wound, he held both wrists in his palms and closed his eyes. A warm light spread from his hands to Wrathion’s skin, swelling into a halo that whispered soothingly against the wounds. By the time Anduin let go, Wrathion’s burn tingled rather than stung. He flexed, then curled in his fingers.

Anduin watched him do it. The golden glow that had overtaken his eyes retreated, revealing the same cool blue orbs Wrathion remembered. “Every Tuesday I volunteer here at the Cathedral as part of my priestly duties,” he explained, his tone even, matter of fact. “It helps me connect with my people and strengthen my ties to the Light, and I’m happy to unburden the clergy where I can.”

“I see. Well, then, how fortunate I decided to kill N’Zoth on a Monday!”

The corners of Anduin’s mouth twitched, but then fell to the same impenetrable line he had worn since his arrival. The brief flutter in Wrathion’s chest faded, and he drew his shoulders together. 

He let Anduin work for a moment, watching as he unwound a new strip of gauze and tucked it into his right palm. The king wrapped it once, then again, then slid his thumb up under Wrathion’s fingers and nudged. “You need to relax.” 

“Ah, yes, sorry.” Wrathion uncurled each digit, but he couldn’t stop them from shaking against the sheets. 

Anduin raised his brow and, finally, shot him a look. The lines on his forehead deepened, but his hand against Wrathion’s palm remained steady. “Something’s troubling you, Wrathion. What happened before I arrived? Why did Stanley look startled?”

His words quickened towards the end, tumbling together in a rush that wasn’t _accusatory_ , yet still stole the breath from Wrathion’s throat. His mind returned to their last meeting: to the sting of Anduin’s knuckles against his cheek, the flash in his eyes as he swung forward and hissed—

“A nightmare, my dear, as I mentioned,” he managed, looking down at his lap and swallowing the lump straining his words. “Not the worst, of course, but certainly not the best. I had hoped this would be over, but I’m afraid N’Zoth’s curse still haunts me.”

Anduin released his hold on his wrist, sliding down and wrapping his fingers around his ankle. He adjusted it, then murmured a prayer under his breath that sent warm tendrils down to the torn ligament. “What kind of dream?” He asked with a clinical air. “Like the ones you used to have at the Tavern?”

“Oh, no,” Wrathion rushed to correct him. Pressing a bandaged palm into the mattress, he squirmed his back up the headboard. His leg slipped out from Anduin’s light grasp; the king withdrew and folded his hands in his lap. 

“It was quite different, honestly,” the dragon mused, taking care to pronounce every word. “Rather than forcing me to endure the destruction of the world, this time the attack was, well, personal. Preying on my own anxieties and such.”

Anduin inclined his shoulder forward and leaned his elbow against the bed. As he listened, the lines above his eyes softened and the corners of his mouth relaxed. He brushed back a wisp of hair that had escaped his bun. “And you think that is some residual curse of N’Zoth?”

“Well,” Wrathion admitted. “Yes, it must be.”

“Wrathion.” Anduin’s voice was smooth, but a slight twinkle of a laugh quivered beneath his words. He pursed his lips and lowered his voice. “Everyone has nightmares like that. I get them all the time.”

“You do?” A sudden flush swept over the dragon’s cheeks. His mouth went dry. He swallowed and pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, whispering, “But the dream felt real, and my emotions stuck with me, the quickening of my heart, the tightness of my chest—”

“Yes,” the king smiled, openly this time. “That’s normal. It happens to me all the time.”

“It does?”

“Yes!” Rolling back his shoulders, Anduin reached over and smoothed out Wrathion’s sheets, straightening them in his lap. With his gaze distracted, he jumped to a more familiar pitch and let out a chuckle beneath his breath. “Sometimes I have nightmares that I misplaced an important letter, or that I’m at dinner with the Horde and I’ve forgotten how to speak Orcish. Was it something along those lines?”

The dragon’s jaw tightened, another surge of fear stabbing, unbidden, at his heart. Trying to banish thoughts of that scroll swinging in the guard’s gaunt hands, he wrinkled his nose and muttered, “Ah, perhaps a bit more severe than that. It was rather devastating, really.”

Anduin nodded, his blond head bobbing. After a small, sympathetic glance, he reached down and toyed with a piece of hay poking out from the mattress, “You know,” he said, pushing its gold point back through the fabric. “I’ve had the same dream once a week for the past few months, where Genn storms into my room and tells me Gilneas is burning. It’s stupid, really. Gilneas doesn’t even belong to the Alliance, and his people don't live there, but the panic—”

“Yes,” the dragon lowered his head. “I can imagine.”

“I thought it might be N’Zoth, as you mentioned, but it happened again last night. I haven’t had reoccurring nightmares like that since my old dreams about father finding my diary.”

“The white one with the crane on the cover? That would have been a pity.”

Wrathion didn’t process his own words until the last sound had already left the tip of his tongue and the king had snapped back to stare at him with wide eyes. His pale cheeks glowed in the lamplight, and his bottom lip trembled. Wrathion hurried to explain, “I didn’t read it, of course!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I only saw it sitting by your bedside at the Tavern. I would have never gotten into your belongings without asking. It would have been _untoward_.” 

“All right,” Anduin’s frown faded, but the blush painting him red from neck to ears didn’t retreat. Plucking out a strand of hay, he rolled it between his fingers, then tore it in two. 

Watching him, Wrathion waited until his own heart stopped pounding in his head, then tried, gently, “In any case, I’m sure your teenage secrets were quite safe, whatever they were.”

The human kept his gaze down; the only indication he had heard was a faint twitch at the corners of his mouth, and an even fainter laugh. He went quiet for a moment, then, lifting his eyes to meet Wrathion’s stare, offered, “I can help you relax, if you want. It should help you sleep while the potion takes effect. If you’re still anxious—”

“Yes.” Wrathion’s curls bounced on his shoulders as he lowered his head. “I would appreciate that. Thank you, my dear.” 

Nodding, Anduin shifted his tray of supplies to the corner of the bed and leaned over. His right arm swept across Wrathion’s chest as he brought his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. The dragon stole one last look at the gentle smile on his lips, then followed suit, yielding to the darkness and the brush of Anduin’s palm against his cheek.

Warmth pooled against his skin, and then focused, pressing in, then tingling up to the crown of his head. Squinting, he found the king’s face a few inches away, tinged pink from either his lingering flush or the light from Wrathion’s eyes. At such proximity, he couldn’t be sure. 

The dragon opened his mouth to comment, but before he could make a sound Anduin’s fingers moved between his thick brows. They rubbed, then jolted, sending sparks flashing before his vision. He gasped, expelling a small puff of smoke out his nose. Heat soothed away the lines that had creased his forehead. 

Chest rising, he sucked in a breath. As Anduin’s hands slid to either side of his bearded chin, he observed in a gentle murmur, “Like that old pandaren used to do for you by the hot springs.” 

“Yes,” Anduin rubbed the pads of his fingers in a small circle, then pressed. A jolt slackened the dragon’s jaw. 

Tilting back his head against the headboard, Wrathion ‘hm’ed, but found his tongue too heavy to form words.

Anduin continued, “Nan helped me so much, I wanted to bring her skills to the people of Stormwind. I worked with Master Feng learning to use the Light in a similar fashion. Is it working?” He leaned forward, opening his eyes to regard Wrathion with a searching look. 

“It is,” Wrathion replied with a slight incline of his head. “You always have been rather ingenuous, haven’t you, my dear?”

“Adaptable, I like to think,” Anduin chuckled. His cheeks darkened, and he turned away to wrap his fingers around the dragon’s uninjured foot and press his thumb into the arch. 

This time, Wrathion saw the light ignite at the tip of the human’s finger. It pinged his nerve with a jerk, sending a tremor racing up his leg. In its wake, however, came calm: warm, soothing, like a soak in a tub or a kiss pressed to his skin on a spring afternoon. He rolled back his shoulders and drew in an even breath. Anduin reached across his lap and caught his left wrist in his palm.

“It’s going to be different for you, isn’t it?” Anduin pointed out, sliding his thumb up the inside of his arm. “With N’Zoth gone and all, hopefully you’ll find peace.”

“I would like to think so,” Wrathion flashed a sheepish look, a bit more honest than he intended. “Unfortunately, our work in Silithus isn’t done, and likely won’t be for some time. Such is the Earth-Warder’s burden.”

“So, you’ll go back with Magni, then?” Anduin rubbed from the heel of his hand to the inside of his elbow. Wrathion expected him to find the nerve and press down, but, instead, he stroked, ghosting across his skin and trembling, ever-so-slightly, as he stared at their point of contact.

A bolder Wrathion might have uncurled his fingers and taken his hand, but now he didn’t dare move. 

“I suppose, yes,” he answered carefully. “My brother has offered to stay, but I really shouldn’t leave him there alone.”

Anduin nodded. A strand of hair escaped from his bun and slid down his cheek, partially blocking his eyes from view. The dragon, however, heard the frown in his voice. “Of course. Yes, I understand.”

“But I’ll be stopping by with reports, visits to your Earthen Ring representatives, and such. If I am permitted back in your city.” His voice rose, punctuating his final statement with a question. Against the inside of his forearm, Anduin’s thumb froze.

The king looked down at his bandage-wrapped hand, then stole a glance at his face, removing his fingers to tuck his hair back behind his ear. In the oil lamp’s glow, his pale skin shone, betraying the heat that warmed it and the sheen of sweat on his brow. Mumbling something incoherent, he scooped up the tray on the corner of the mattress, rose from his stool, and limped to the counter on the opposite side of the room.

Wrathion’s chest clenched. Dread inched its cold fingers up his spine, grabbing his shoulders and shaking them. His throat tightened when he opened his mouth, and the peace he had found moments before dissipated, leaving a quiver in its wake. 

Adjusting his hair and putting the potions back in their place, Anduin hunched forward. For a moment, all Wrathion heard was the clatter of glass and a quick inhale. Then, Anduin turned and slipped a hand into his coat. 

The corner of a parchment envelope peeked out from the crisp blue linen. As more of the letter came into view, Wrathion realized with a start it was stamped in gold with the official seal of the crown. 

His heart leapt to his throat, then plummeted, spiraling downwards with the blood draining from his cheeks. His injured hands clenched in his lap. Willing the fear from his eyes, willing his lower lip to stop shaking, he waited, using every thought in his head to remember to breathe.

Anduin stared, his eyes wide. He tugged out the paper and clutched it against his chest, before quickly explaining, “There’s, ah—I’m holding a feast at the Keep in two days to celebrate N’Zoth’s defeat and to honor the champions who took him down.”

“I—Oh!” Wrathion exclaimed, but his voice was dry and difficult on his lips. Any relief bubbling in his chest was swiftly subsumed by a single, painful memory of his wine glass slipping and shattering across the Keep’s tile walkway. His eyes darted to the envelope; Anduin followed his gaze.

“And that?” The dragon leaned in. His breath hitched, but he forced his lips into a smile. “What is that, dear king? My invitation?”

Shaking his head, Anduin looked to the lamp left of Wrathion’s head. He stepped forward and placed the envelope on the corner of the bed, a few inches out of reach. Wrathion’s brows rose. The king finally looked into his crimson eyes, and smiled, faint, but with a familiar warmth that soothed the ache in Wrathion’s chest without blessing or prayer. 

“No,” he whispered. “Your pardon.”

Wrathion’s slit pupils narrowed. He opened his mouth to address the king, but before he could, Anduin spun on his heels and quickened away from the room. As Wrathion readjusted, leaning down to collect the letter, Anduin disappeared over the threshold and clicked closed the door. 

Wrapping his fingers around the smooth parchment, Wrathion brought it to rest in the crease of his lap. His nail fumbled with the seal until he worked his way under the wax and peeled open the paper. Inside, in Anduin’s careful blue script, the same script he had glimpsed from across the room lining the pages of his diary, he read, and re-read a single line:

_On this day, the fourth day of the seventh month, the Kingdom of Stormwind decrees Wrathion, the Black Prince, son of Neltharion and Nyxondra, Earth-Warder and Slayer of N’Zoth, absolved of all crimes against the crown, in recognition of his invaluable service and heroism, by the Light’s grace and by the hand of Its humble servant: King Anduin Llane Wrynn._

A breath stuck in his throat. Hugging the parchment to his chest, he squeezed closed his eyes. When he reopened them, the details of the room around him rippled and blurred through his tears. His burns pressed against the swell of his upper arms, but the relief pouring over his shoulders washed away any prickle or twinge of pain.

He exhaled, watching the smoke pouring from his lips curl, then vanish into the air before him. With another breath, it finally sunk in.

He was free.


End file.
